Seated around the table with Victor were the vice president of the Alumni Association, the director of the university libraries, the chief flag marshal of the Class of ’11—formidable gentlemen all—and Abbot Lawrence Lowell.
The president emeritus was turned out in a light gray suit, as though he knew it would distinguish him in a sea of dark fabric. He had entered the room with his usual quick step; he had punctuated every greeting with his characteristic nod, a gesture that some said he learned from Teddy and taught to Franklin. But for all his energy, Abbot Lawrence Lowell was ancient. What hair he had left was pure white. So was his mustache. And his eyes had all but disappeared into the puffy bags around them, as though he were a boxer pounded not by fists but by time.
And if Lowell was now ancient, Victor Wedge had to be growing old, even though he had looked better than most anyone at his twenty-fifth reunion. He was still trim and vigorous, with only a little gray at his temples and in his mustache. But the same river that swept Lowell toward the sea drew Victor, too. And that realization made him feel even closer to a woman who had ridden that river past the burning of Harvard Hall and the American Revolution and had anticipated this day in 1936. He had decided that he owed it to her to see the contents of that gilt-edged envelope before anyone else did.
“I will now open the packet,” said Conant.
Gentlemen leaned forward. Victor rubbed the palms of his hands on his trousers.
The red wax seals popped, the string and paper came away, and there was . . . an inner folder. Conant carefully opened it and there were . . . letters. Some had been opened and stacked neatly. Others had remained in envelopes, also stacked neatly and tied.
Victor inclined his head and looked for an edge of gold leaf.
Conant examined the packet, lifted a few letters, thumbed the pile of envelopes.
Victor saw a flash of gold and resolved not to take his eyes off of it.
“Unfortunately, gentlemen,” said Conant, “it seems as if the packet contains letters and nothing else. No newspapers, no engravings, no medallions.”
“Would the president read a letter or two?” asked Lowell.
Conant looked over at Samuel Eliot Morison, a historian in owl-shaped glasses and bow tie. “Professor Morison will be inspecting them, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“I can’t wait myself,” said Morison.
And Victor Wedge put both hands on the table, just inches from the folder.
Conant turned over one letter and picked up another, then turned to another, until he found one to his liking. “This comes from Samuel Wragg of Charleston, South Carolina, Class of 1790. He concludes: ‘May the Sons of Harvard University celebrate her centennial anniversaries to the end of time, each celebration witnessing her increasing reputation.’”
“Hear, hear,” said Lowell.
“Perhaps I should read one that was kept in an envelope.” Conant moved his hand to that packet and broke the string holding the envelopes together.
Victor rubbed the tips of his fingers against his thumbs. There would be a moment, very soon, when the gilt-edged envelope would be within his grasp.
Conant picked up the first envelope. “On the flap, it says, ‘Not to be opened until 1936.’ There are several like that, and as you can see, the wishes of the authors were respected.” Conant opened the envelope and said, “Perhaps this is why: ‘To the Gentlemen of the Future: Excuse me for this frank expression of feelings. But I am compelled to say that I owe nothing to the president, professors, and tutors of Harvard college from 1810 to 1814. I hope you do not say as little for the Harvard of your time.’”
This brought healthy laughter. Even in that group, most men tried to maintain a bit of cynicism about a college that took itself so seriously. And all considered it was a sign of good character to be able to laugh at themselves.
When the laughter died, Conant said, “With that, I’ll hear a motion to adjourn.”
So moved, seconded, approved. Then the gentlemen in the room were on their feet, milling about, clattering their coffee cups and spoons, and turning their attention to the best part of any alumni meeting—the conversation.
But at the president’s table, there was still business to be done. Victor stood and gestured to a sheet of paper on the table. “Gentlemen, before Professor Morison takes the packet, we must all sign to attest to what we’ve witnessed.”
“Ah, yes,” said Conant. “Quite right.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the vice president of the Alumni Association.
Conant said, “And as President Lowell signs, perhaps—”
With his left hand, Victor was sliding the signing sheet across the table toward Lowell, while with his right, he was sliding the gilt-edge envelope toward himself. And Conant was saying, “Perhaps a photograph.”
And . . . flash!
All the gentlemen around the table turned to the camera, except for Lowell, who was taking out his pen and preparing to sign.
Victor blinked away the blue spot that went floating past. He looked at the camera as another bulb was popped into place and . . . flash!
Victor had the envelope, and the photographer had him. But in the moment that most of the gentlemen in the room were blinded by the second flash, Victor moved the envelope to his pocket. Then all were turning to watch Lowell sign the sheet. Then . . . flash! Victor slid his hand to his pocket and pushed the envelope deeper.
Victor studied the letter, followed its directions, and late one evening, he became the first person in a century and a half to set eyes on the manuscript of Love’s Labours Won. Once he had allowed his sense of awe to settle, he made his decision.
Harvard’s president might co-sign the diplomas of Radcliffe graduates, but in too many ways, ignorance still prevailed. So Victor did what he thought Lydia would have wanted, what the Callahans would have appreciated, what his descendants, he hoped, would consider profound rather than clever.
He finished his work on the morning of September 17, a few hours before the meeting of the Associated Harvard Alumni.
Then he took his seat on the stage of Tercentenary Theater, the new name for the great outdoor space between Widener and the pillars of Memorial Church. He fixed his eye on the podium, on which sat the Tercentenary packet. It was the size of a briefcase. Embossed in gold on the crimson cover flap were the Harvard seal and the years 1936 and 2036. Affixed also was a handwritten note: “To be opened by the President of Harvard in the autumn of 2036 and not before. J. B. Conant.”
President Conant described for the thousands of gathered alumni the contents of the 1836 packet, opened a few weeks earlier. Then, with appropriate ceremony, he called for the university stamp and sealed the Tercentenary packet.
Well done, thought Victor, in more ways than one.
Though none could know the contours of the world a century hence, none who attended the Tercentenary thought that the Harvard men of 2036 would be able to match the celebrations of that night. Three hundred thousand people lined the banks of the Charles to watch a barge carry the college band and a plaster statue of John Harvard up the river, while a spectacular fireworks display arched above.
And nothing entertained Victor as much as the excitement on the faces of his sons, Jimmy and Ned, sixteen and fourteen, another generation for Harvard.
The Wedges joined with hundreds of rowdy undergraduates who raised the plaster John Harvard onto their shoulders and bore him in torchlight parade from the river to the Yard, where the bronze John Harvard politely received his replica and the raucous cheers of the students.
Neddy said that it looked as though the statue were smiling.
“He is,” said Victor. “And tomorrow morning, he’ll be grinning from ear to ear.”
But several hundred miles to the south, a hurricane was blowing off the Virginia Capes and swirling north. There was talk of canceling the climactic ceremonies, but the weather prediction for Cambridge: light showers in the morning, growing heavier by afternoon. So the sho
w would go on.
At 9:30, bugles blew in the Old Yard, and the procession formed. The oldest living graduates, from the classes of 1860 and 1862, stepped off, followed by some ten thousand alumni behind banners representing all the living classes. They made a circuit of the Old Yard, then marched into the field of folding chairs in Tercentenary Theater, and took seats assigned by classes. Meanwhile, the band played ceremonial airs, and the skies darkened, and the wind caused pennants and banners to flutter and puff.
At the next flourish of bugles, the alumni stood like guests at a wedding, the doors of Widener swung open, and Presidents Conant and Lowell stepped out, leading one of the grandest processions of brain power ever collected anywhere on earth.
That’s how Victor had described it for his boys when he left them on the steps of Widener, in a good spot to watch it all. And it was no exaggeration.
There was a professor of physics from Leipzig, of eugenics from London, of international law from Geneva, of philosophy from Peking, of physiology from Buenos Aires, of archaeology from Edinburgh, of psychology from Zurich, of art history from Paris, of chemistry from Munich, of religion from Tokyo . . . and on and on.
And the darkening of the skies, thought Victor, seemed only to intensify the colors of the academic garb—red hats and orange hoods, gold tassels, purple and green and blue satin trimmings, primary colors and pastels, too. And the darkening of the world scene seemed only to make brighter the fond hopes implicit in this gathering of the world’s genius.
Victor watched them move through the assembled alumni, climb the steps of Memorial Church, and take their places in the stands that had been put up behind the podium. Victor had drawn one of the most interesting assignments of the day. He was behind the stands, by the door to Memorial Church, waiting to summon yet another president.
That was where Dickey Drake cornered him. Like Victor, Dickey was on the Alumni Committee, so he was wearing striped trousers, swallow-tailed coat, and silk hat. Still, a Secret Service man stepped from behind a column as Dickey approached.
“It’s all right,” said Victor to the agent.
“Yes,” said Dickey. “Even if I am a Republican.” Then he lowered his voice and said to Victor, “Where is he?”
“In the chapel.” Victor gestured to the door, where another agent stood.
“Praying for forgiveness or votes?”
“No politics today, Dickey,” said Victor. “What do you want?”
“You should be glad that I’m on the publications committee.” Dickey pulled a pile of photos from his pocket. “These are from that meeting last week. And . . . no one else has mentioned it, but it looks to me like you’re palming an envelope.”
“Palming an envelope?” Victor tried to sound shocked.
“Uncle Theodore used to tell my mother about Lydia Wedge Townsend causing a scene at Quincy’s levee. He said that she stood at the table where the packet was displayed and told Quincy that Harvard should educate women or they’d never get her money. I’ve always wondered, did she slip something into the Bicentenary packet?”
Victor decided to tell a little truth. “Yes.”
“What?”
“Some nasty doggerel about the college. I don’t think we should sully Lydia or Harvard by having it put about.”
“How did you find out about it?”
“Dickey, I don’t have time for this right now.” Victor glanced through an opening in the stands and saw that all but two rows of seats on the stage had been filled by the scholars. So he turned to the agent at the chapel door and told him it was time.
Then Dickey whispered to Victor, “We’re putting together a souvenir book. Just tell me which of these photos to use and I’ll destroy the rest.”
“Use the ones that tell the least. That would be best for the Wedge reputation.”
The chapel doors opened behind them, a wheelchair rolled out, and a familiar voice said, “Is that an old Porcellian I see?”
“Yes, sir,” said Victor. “Two Porcellians.”
“Well, this member of the Fly Club says good morning.” Franklin Roosevelt reached down and straightened his legs. Then he locked the braces beneath the trousers, and with the help of one of his agents and his military aide, he stood.
“Allow me to help you to your seat, sir.” Victor offered his arm.
“Thank you, but I’ll need only my cane”—Roosevelt held out his hand and an agent gave him a brass-handled cane, then he put his other hand on the arm of his military aide—“and Colonel Watson. You may direct us, Victor.”
Victor glanced at Dickey, who seemed to be struck speechless by the sight of the president of the United States, in swallow-tailed coat and tall silk hat, standing on his own two feet, chin and barrel chest thrust forward, famous grin lighting his face.
Most Harvard men opposed Roosevelt’s re-election. He had even lost the straw poll at Harvard in 1932. And Lowell, no lover of Roosevelt, had written to him that he might come for the Tercentenary but not bother with “the arduous demands of political speechmaking.” As the fourth graduate of the college to become president, however, Roosevelt made it plain that he intended to give a speech, though not until the afternoon session. In the morning, he would provide no more than his presidential presence.
But getting that presence onto the stage without distracting from the academic procession or drawing attention to the presidential affliction proved a delicate matter. Roosevelt could not march, of course, and he refused to appear before so many in a wheelchair, so it was determined to bring him out while the attention of the spectators was still on the procession. It was Victor’s task to show him to his seat and subtly shield him from view until he was settled.
“This way, sir,” said Victor, putting himself on the president’s right side.
“Now, Victor,” said Roosevelt in that jocular tone, “you Porcellians blackballed me once. Don’t be kicking my cane out from under me now.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” said Victor. “I’m a Democrat before I’m a Porcellian.”
Roosevelt threw his head back and gave a great laugh.
And out they went. By swinging his hips forward and supporting his body on the cane and Watson’s arm, Roosevelt could force his paralyzed legs to give an impression of functionality. Victor could feel the force of will radiating off the man, as if he would do more than overcome the paralysis. He would deny it utterly. And such spirit, thought Victor, was what America needed at that moment.
Only a few people noticed the president when he emerged from an opening in the stands and made his way to a chair near the podium. From a distance, he and Victor looked like two more dignitaries in top hats. But as Roosevelt sat, Victor heard a murmuring among the robed scholars behind them. Then a few in the audience began to applaud. Then a wave of Harvard men was rising to greet the alumnus that so few of them had voted for.
Victor retreated behind the stands and said to Dickey, “They like him.”
“They’re just polite,” sniffed Dickey. “He’s the biggest class traitor of them all.”
Just then, the skies opened up, and as the Boston Herald would report, “the rain fell upon the President with as much abandon as if he were a Republican.”
There were many remarkable moments that morning, moments that Victor hoped his sons would always remember and that he would never forget.
He felt a chill when the university marshal said, “Ladies and gentlemen, from the Southwark Cathedral . . .” And over the loudspeakers came the sound of bells pealing on the other side of the Atlantic, bells that Harvard himself had heard.
Then, England’s poet laureate, John Masefield, stepped to the podium. The canopy did little to protect him or his text from the rain, as he recited “Lines Suggested by the Tercentenary,” extolling the bravery of those who had planted this college in New England: “There was a preacher in that little band, / JOHN HARVARD, son of one from Stratford town, / Who may have shaken Shakespeare’s hand . . .”
And Victor
thought, if they only knew.
And the rain fell harder.
So the afternoon ceremonies were moved into Sanders Theater, which held only a thousand people. Victor and Dickey were lucky enough to get seats in the balcony.
They heard a magisterial speech from A. Lawrence Lowell: “As wave after wave rolls landward from the ocean, breaks and fades away sighing down the shingle of the beach, so the generations of men follow one another, sometimes quietly, sometimes, after a storm, with noisy turbulence. But whether we think upon the monotony or the violence in human history, two things are always new—youth and the quest for knowledge. . . .”
“He may be old,” said Dickey, “but he can still write.”
“Youth and the quest for knowledge,” said Victor. “To have the one, do the other.”
Then Roosevelt stood to another ovation, though Dickey Drake sat on his hands.
“At the time of the Bicentenary,” Roosevelt began, “many of the alumni were sorely troubled concerning the state of the nation. Andrew Jackson was president. On the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the college, alumni were again sorely troubled. Grover Cleveland was president. Now, on the three hundredth anniversary, I am president. . . .”
The laughter began slowly, then rose to a crescendo. Even Dickey chuckled.
Then Roosevelt delivered his version of Harvard history: “In the olden days, it was Increase Mather who told students that they were ‘pledged to the word of no particular master,’ that they should ‘above all find a friend in the truth.’ That became the creed of Harvard. Behind the tumult and shouting, it is still the creed of Harvard. In this day of modern witch-burning, when freedom of thought has been exiled from many lands, it is the part of Harvard and America to stand for the freedom of the human mind and to carry the torch of truth.”
Harvard Yard (Peter Fallon) Page 51